Cold Rolled Dead

The action is fast and violent, with no holds barred... a fast-moving tale of murder, deception, graft. — The Recorder Newspapers

A page-turner.... Cold Rolled Dead is both compelling entertainment and a warning to keep our eyes on our public officials. — Asbury Park Press

Do yourself a favor: Go out and get this book! — Steve Adubato, ''One on One'', CN8

Paul D'Ambrosio's hard-boiled novel... surely is an exciting first novel...with a narrative that makes The Godfather seem quaint and naive. It will keep you in suspense and you'll be surprised at the twists and double-crossing, the blackmail and treachery that are at the heart of this novel.
— The Beachcomber

It's a fast-paced mystery/thriller.... A Tom Clancy-like affair, with billions of dollars at stake.... A perfect read for a hot summer day at the beach, one that may keep you awake far into the evening. — The SandPaper

2008 Eric Hoffer Award Finalist — for Excellence in Independent Publishing

A black metal drum washes up in the surf, a faceless body sealed inside. So begins a journey into the darker side of New Jersey life. With a backdrop of the Shore s sights, sounds, and landmarks as throngs of tourists enjoy a holiday weekend at the beach Cold Rolled Dead brings together a cast of memorable characters, including: ? Matt Forge, a former star-detective relegated to the lowly beach beat, now plagued by memories of his failures, who finds the man in the can is linked to a wide-ranging crime ring and a plot to defraud stock investors worldwide; ? Sister Maris Stella, whose religious vows do not exclude chain-smoking, palm reading, or murder investigations; ? Dominick Tolck, a ruthless crime lord with a unique way of erasing victims, who dreams of creating his own twisted version of paradise deep in the protected Pinelands preserve, and who has plenty of politicians in his pocket to make his dream become reality.Cold Rolled Dead has enough plot twists to keep the most astute mystery reader wondering until the end who can be trusted and who will survive. No one is above suspicion, nothing is as it seems, and every discovery leads to another turn in the case.The author, a national award-winning investigative journalist who has covered more than 100 homicide cases, uses his experience in exposing crime and government corruption to deliver a fast-paced novel about murder, deception, and, ultimately, redemption at the Jersey Shore. — from the Inside Flap

Excerpt

A cool sweep of air embraced Lester Lewis as he drew open the heavy oak doors to the sanctuary.
The air conditioning offered a respite from the morning heat, which seemed to grow in intensity with every passing minute. The breeze was enough to divert his attention from the dull ache in his arthritic hip, the pain a constant reminder that his once-spry jaunts were now hobbled to a measured pace. He tugged absentmindedly at his dark blue sports jacket to shut out the unexpected chill.
He had come this morning to Saint Sebastian’s Church, nestled deep in the green, lush Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey. The house of worship was a cozy remnant of a speck-of-a-town that was quickly passing into oblivion as the hamlet’s eldest members faded away.
Lewis, now just a visitor, had shunned the church for years. The long shadows of the early morning hour ensured that the few remaining communicants were nowhere in sight. He scanned the hollow vestibule and then looked forward, toward the last of the wooden pews. Father Caden, a sandy-haired priest several years Lewis’s junior, sat with his hands folded and head bowed as he rested on the worn, rigid kneeler.
The deep rumble of the giant oak door closing told Father Caden that he was no longer alone.
“Good morning, Les,” Caden said without looking up. “I was surprised by your call. It’s been awhile.”
“Yes, Father,” Lewis said. He winced in pain as he genuflected before the altar and turned into the pew. “After all these years, I still can’t see you with that collar.”
“We each find our own path, Les,” Father Caden said as he pulled himself slowly to a seated position from the kneeler. “How long has it been? Ten? Fifteen years? Has retirement from the police force been good to you?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Caden,” Lewis said. “You know our friend has told you all about me.”
“I left that world a long time ago.”
Lewis lowered his voice to intone his impatience.
“C’mon. You got rich, we all got rich from it,” Lewis said. “You couldn’t stay away if you tried. You ran away to this godforsaken place, and you still couldn’t stay away. Tell me, how do you explain to your flock about your nice house, your nice car?”
“I say nothing,” the priest said quietly. “They assume I inherited it from a distant relative. I do try to keep my vows to be honest.”
“And the women... there are still the women, aren’t there, Caden?” Lewis scanned his quarry as if he were a viper about to strike.
Caden closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “There are no longer any women, Lester. Why are you here? Did you come to blackmail me for a few dollars? Is that what your poor life has come to?”
Lewis paused and looked away, unsure what to say next, unsure how to begin. His hard features softened faintly as he reflected on the priest’s carefully chosen words. 
“I am so tired,” Lewis said. He turned again to face Caden as the priest moved to meet his eyes. “So tired.”
“Your spirit is weary. I can see that,” Caden said. He slowly reached to clasp Lewis’s hands in his own. Caden felt a slight tremble as he offered a reassuring squeeze. “Do you wish to offer your confession?”
“I do,” Lewis said. “You know it has been much too long. You know what I have done; the terrible things that I have done.”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me, Father,” Lewis said as he bowed his head. “Forgive me.”
“Go on, Les.”
“I am here because of another,” Lewis said. He raised his eyes to see a mixture of puzzlement and alarm on Father Caden’s face. He felt a rush of adrenaline through his body, one that caused his left eye to twitch.
“I... I don’t understand.”
“Our friend,” Lewis said. “Our friend was here to see you. Was it... yesterday?”
Caden was caught off guard. A minute stutter gave Lewis the reassurance that he needed. “I’m not sure that I can talk about this, Lester.”
“I know he was here,” Lester said in a flat tone, his eyes meeting the priest’s gaze full on. “I know he talked to you. I know that he told you.”
“I cannot talk about this,” Caden said. He instinctively pulled his hands away, trying to inch away from Lewis, but was stopped by the solid edge of the pew.
“You know, don’t you?” Lewis said, sliding closer. “Tell me if you know.”
“You must leave, now,” Caden said, his voice rising to a harsh whisper. “I cannot talk about this.”
Lewis grabbed the priest’s wrist, locking it in a tight grip. “The temptation for one more score was too much, wasn’t it, Caden? You couldn’t live without just one more taste, isn’t that right? You need to tell me what you know.”
“I know nothing,” Caden said. “Your grip. Let go. Let go. You are hurting me.”
“Do you?” Lewis pulled closer, lowering his voice. He looked around to ensure they were still alone. “Do you know about it?”
“About what?”
“The Khimer-A.”
Father Caden’s eyes widened and then darted toward the vestibule. Lewis could see that the reaction was the final affirmation; he had found what he had come for.
“The Khimer-A? I don’t know what you are talking about. What is it?”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Lewis said, relaxing his grip to offer an easy assurance of calm. “The pain... I sometimes become too anxious because of this damn arthritis.”
Father Caden eased his rigid spine, a sign to Lewis that he no longer feared him. With his free hand Lewis gently caressed his aching hip. With the slightest of movements, he moved to the hollow of his back. His fingertips danced lightly over the reassuring coolness of the brass, then removed the hammer’s dark and dimpled wooden handle from its thin custom holster.
“Forgive me, Father,” Lewis said, exhaling. “Forgive me, Caden.”
The heavy brass flashed from behind Lewis’s back into a high arc. With a soft sound, like a paper cup being crushed, the ball peen dug effortlessly into the top of the priest’s head. Caden slumped forward. His motion was momentarily halted by the kneeler. As the weight in his lifeless body shifted to the right, the priest slid silently into Lewis’s lap.
Lewis knew they were alone. He had no need to hurry. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a thick, black trash bag. He quickly wrapped it around the dead priest’s head and made sure, as he had done countless times before, that no specs of blood dripped on the floor. The hammer had a way of stopping the blood flow; the trick was never to take it out before the heart stopped beating.
Lewis thought about offering another apology to his old friend, but knew it was useless. Whatever forgiveness he sought, it was too late now. With the bag secured, Lewis yanked the priest’s body to an upright position. Even with the medication, the pain shot through his hip like a knife. He let out a small yell, but he would have to endure it. There was little time for self-pity. Once outside, he knew he would have to move quickly to put the body in the trunk of his car to move it to its final, hidden place. Caden could not be found, at least for the next three days. It was all the time Lewis needed.
It was all the time he had before the Khimer-A arrived.

Copyright © 2007 Paul D’Ambrosio and Down The Shore Publishing Corp. All Rights Reserved.

Selected Excerpts

The blowtorch unit was an effective device not only for human erasures, but changing reluctant minds. She had devised a small, mobile two-tank unit on wheels for those hard to reach jobs in odd places. Who needs prolonged beatings and threats when you have this at your side, she thought. Light the flame, let the guy get a good look at its hot tip and his mind will fill in the blanks. If he still didn’t see it your way, well, there was still the flame.

Consolina carefully unwound the double red rubber hoses from their holder. She turned the oxy-acetylene fed nozzle from a slow standby burn to its full force. It’s color instantly changed from a bright orange to a brilliant, almost colorless blue.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said over the shrill hiss of the fire as she flipped the safety goggles slowly over her eyes. “But this is going to hurt very, very much.”

***

Grant turned his talent for gab into politics. Out of boredom from retirement, he had joined former Gov. Baylock’s reelection effort as a local fundraiser. His first foray into the grip-and-grin parties of the ward’s elite proved so lucrative for the party he was soon promoted to regional fundraiser.

Here he quickly learned the political trait of trading. In between embellished Army stories and backslapping donors as if they were long-lost buddies, Grant found that businessmen wanted something in return for as little as a $500 campaign contribution.

“Can I meet the governor?”

“Will I be invited to the Governor’s Ball?”

“I want to talk to the governor about a project of mine.”

The demands all sounded the same after a while. But Grant found the more he said yes, the more money he could extract from them. And the more money the party would kickback to him as a “finder’s fee.”

With a little coaching from the top fundraisers in the party, Grant developed his own silky way to woo a wavering donor.

“I’ve known this governor for many, many years,” Grant would lie. “The governor is a man of his word, and a man who appreciates his friends. If you can find your way to stand side-by-side with him in his reelection effort, I know he will find a way to repay your loyalty.”

Grant had his set fees: $1,000 would get you a telephone call from an aide. $10,000 will entitle you to one meeting with a cabinet level official in the department of your choice; $40,000 will get you in the room with the governor, usually with other donors vying for his undivided attention. And a $100,000 check to the party, with a separate $5,000 cash payment to Grant for his facilitator duties, will get you just about anything you wanted.

***

The mist was heavy this morning as they fought the chill from the damp air. Matty’s father held his son close as the elder one sipped hot coffee from a thermos cup.

“Do you see them, Matty?” his father asked his seven-year-old son.

“No, dad. Where are they?”

“They’ll be out there. They haven’t moved all winter. I don’t think they are in the mood to move now,” his father said.

Matty stared into the mist for a long time.

“There,” Matty shouted. “It’s there.”

In the distance, Matty pointed to a faint blinking green light of a channel buoy that marked the outer limits of the deeper waterway. It was the main highway for boat traffic, and the best way to determine your place in a foggy bay.

“Do you see the next one? Do you see the next marker?”

“No, dad. Where is it?”

“It’s out there. You know these waters. Just imagine drawing a straight line from us to the green buoy. Do you see it, do you see it?”

“No, I don’t see it…Wait, I think I see the red one.”

“Yes, Matty you got it. Remember, you will never get lost if you follow the markers.”
 
***

“Ready to see the magic?” Singh said.

He twisted off the top of the bottle of liquid cyanoacrylate, quickly filled a small reservoir at the top of the blower and shut the cover. On the blower, he flicked another switch that said simply “Heat.” Within seconds a small mist of white smoke poured from the tube into the tent.

Forge watched as the acrylic fog moved into every spot of the twisted corpse. The smoke soon covered the entire body, making it nearly invisible to the observers. Singh, who was timing the smoking on his watch, flicked off the heat switch. Within seconds the white smoke vanished, revealing a body covered in a microscopic thin and eerie layer of white crystals.

“Awesome,” Singh said to no one in particular. “You just never get used to seeing this.”